For I Have Sinned
by broadwaybaby529
Summary: Getting laid was what one did with the highway bartenders. It was how lonely men on lonely journeys passed their time. Getting Laid was mediocre, usually pathetic, sweaty and unsatisfying, but better than nothing. Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.


**For I Have Sinned**

**Disclaimer:** If the show belonged to me I would keep Jensen, Jared, Misha and that beautiful Chevy all to myself.

**Pairing:** Cas/Dean

**Rating:** M

**Spoilers:** Up to and including the end of Season Five

**Tags/Warnings:** Slash, smut, language, slight S&M theme, adult themes, emotional Dean, imbibing, slight POV switching, slight tense switching, spoilers, ect, onward and upward.

**Inspired by:** "Not for nothing Cas, but the last time somebody looked at me like that I got laid."

**Dedicated:** My lovely Mary. She not only accepts my "psychopathically, irrationally, erotically, codependent" relationship with Supernatural, but she actively enables it. Just one more reason to love her.

**Summary:** Getting laid was what one did with the highway bartenders. It was how lonely men on lonely journeys passed their time. Getting Laid was mediocre, usually pathetic, sweaty and unsatisfying, but better than nothing. Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.

**A/N:** Just finished Season Five and am feeling emotional. I'm way behind, which means that this fic is based solely around everything up to Swan Song and including all spoilers I've stumbled upon from and Tumblr. This was meant to be July 4th fic - almost entirely for the purpose of saying "I suggest we imbibe in copious quantities of alcohol and wait for the inevitable blast" but I missed it by a few days. In any case - Enjoy!

**For I Have Sinned**

Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.

Well, he had and he would - but he knew that the terminology hardly even qualified to be in the same category as what he was experiencing. _Getting laid_ was what one did with the highway bartenders. It was how lonely men on lonely journeys passed their time. _Getting laid _was mediocre, usually pathetic, sweaty and unsatisfying, but better than nothing.

Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.

He should have know, or, at the very least, not been surprised. In fact, had the circumstances been different he figures things wouldn't have taken so long, wouldn't have wound themselves into such a deeply tangled knot that it's just another sin on the Christmas list of character defects he drinks away each night. But in this particularly case he's allowed to blame the timing. It's never a good moment to get caught with your pants down, but the rising apocalypse rates on his top ten worst places.

The look in Castiel's eyes that night, when they locked him in the bunker in Bobby's basement and begged him to come to his senses before the end of the world, will be forever etched in his mind - searing and deep, conveying the troubled passions of a man who cares but has yet to figure out how to express it. Long before Cas was ever human he thought like one, Dean knows. But that look was so full, so deeply complex and layered that it took more than one throwaway comment about lust, more than a year, more than dozens of dirty dreams and pathetically cold showers to understand that with Castiel lust and anger run a dangerous crossroads.

Dean revels in that look, when his traitorous mind stumbles back over it, again and again. He needs that look. And, as thoroughly angry as it burns for him it turns him on, in all the gritty, dirty, not the pretty part of life way that Dean is so thoroughly accustomed to.

He tries not to think about it too much. For many reasons, not the least of which being that the Angel can still read his mind, Dean tries to hold back the perverse images, the erotica of slapping and riding and rutting that flashes across his abused psyche and adds another question to his already precarious existence. It's a secret that he understands even less than that time he got dragged down to Hell or that summer he spent running from the Archangel.

But right now he's alone in the Hotel 69 off highway go-fuck-yourself and he can't help but let those dirty thoughts run crossways across his mind. He lets them because he knows Cas is listening.

Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.

But his body doesn't understand the nuances in the words and when he hears the flutter of wings and lets his eyes rake over the covered form suddenly before him he's already half hard with droplets of sweat sliding across his neck.

Cas doesn't speak when he answers _these_ kind of prayers, but that's not what either of them need. Fucking freaks, is what they are, Dean thinks, righteous man who turned left and the fallen angel. If they deserved nice words and cuddling through the night and murmured affections then they wouldn't be where they were, finding the wrong kind of love in a forgotten motel, miles from anywhere that mattered.

He doesn't take off the trench coat, least not at first. In that damn coat Cas looks so in control, so powerful, eyes narrowed upon him, hair mussed and unruly. He licks lips that will always be chapped and Dean feels him the room, as if his aura is expanding to take over everything Dean has ever touched.

Cas slaps him first. Hard, across the face in a stinging, painful reminder that, despite the surreality of everything, these moments are very very real. The first time Dean couldn't relax his shoulders, couldn't put aways the need to fight back, to clench his fists and pummel Cas' jaw in. Now, he revels in the sensation of back handed knuckles and swallows the smart ass remark and bites his lip - if there's not blood from Cas' hands then Dean will put it there.

Even still he won't go as far as to kneel on the floor, but Dean pulls himself up from the headboard and kneels at the foot of the bed, hands behind his back, head down. His eyes are up though, and he knows that there's a fucked up smile behind them because _fuck_ it's been five minutes and he's already throbbing in his jeans.

Dean looks at Cas, biting his lip and grinning like an asshole, and it never fails to piss his angel off. It's exactly what he's going for, because Cas is angry, but so damn good at controlling it, and Dean loves to let that anger free, and maybe he's doing it for Cas and maybe he's doing it for him, but whatever it is feels good for the both of them and he doesn't actually feel bad about it.

That grin is like a cue to the man before him, a one last yes, before Cas grabs his neck and scruff and pushes him into the mattress. Hand still on Dean's neck, and Dean has grown to love the feeling of thick calloused skin, as big as his own, holding him into the scratchy fabric, Cas leans into him, those beautiful lips just breaths from his ear. Like a script.

"Who's the slut now, Winchester?" He growls, hot breath invading Dean's ear, sticking to his neck. The words, as they roll off Castiel's dirty lips, tonguing vowels in deep echo, are fuel to his fire.

By this point Cas has usually stripped down to his button up shirt, lost the tie, and his shoes, maybe even rolled his sleeves up on the little see through number that Dean knows he's special for ever getting to see. Dean sees anger in Cas' eyes, always anger. But there's a visible need already throbbing behind the blueness, one he's sure Cas understands even less than Dean understands his own, but damn if Dean doesn't like to watch his angel struggle.

Cas sits next to him on the bed, and sometimes Dean wonders if this is all a big daddy complex. It's a thought that never lasts long, though, because it's so much more than that. What him and Cas do is for survival, what they do is a way of feeling alive and needed and special for one fucking second. John Winchester has nothing to do with it and Castiel makes sure Dean knows not to call out _God_ because that's a way to kill any man's arousal.

When he sits Cas is gentle. He whispers for Dean to lie down across his lap, like a good little boy. Size wise it's always been a bit of an issue, Dean's taller than Cas, with wider shoulder and a broadness to his frame. But neither of them have ever fit perfectly with anything in their lives and this is the closest they've come to match made.

He tugs down Dean's jeans, pulls them and his boxers to his knees. It's an awkward dance, given that Dean is far too old to be getting spanked, but that look in that bunker all those months and lovers and monsters ago was just a catalyst to this.

_Slap._

Castiel makes him count - sometimes ten, sometimes more, depending on his mood. If it were up to Dean he'd be off like a rocket the second Cas' hand makes contact with his exposed ass, but he's not allowed to get off until he's given permission and Cas is old and patience is just one of his many virtues.

Destroying Dean's sanity is another, because he drags out the punishment until Dean feels like he's going to explode - rough, ragged handprints that mark him more intimately than the shoulders, and he's always prided himself on his sexual prowess, but Cas somehow reduces him to an early shooting prom date.

The spanking is done, just as with everything else, when Cas says it is, and somewhere along the line Dean realized why they play the game the way they do. It's a role reversal, if he's being honest, him completely giving up control and Cas completely taking it. The way they've lived their lives, if one could call them lives, have been just the opposite - Dean grabbing weapons and Cas grappling for answers - and this is somehow the missing puzzle piece to it all.

Cas is always demanding, but somehow gentle, when he tells Dean to take off the rest of his clothes. He likes a show, Dean has begun to realize, sprawling himself over the chair and watching Dean strip, one layer after another until he's dressed only in his tattoo and reddened ass and raised eyebrow that reminds Cas he knows exactly what's going on.

He lets Dean taste first, usually - though when things are especially bad they skip all the foreplay. But tonight he unzips his pants and lets Dean scurry down to his knees and tells him to beg for it. The first time Dean thought he was crazy - now he can't get enough. Watching Cas lose control when he wraps his head around his engorged cock is more than enough to have him sucking away - and Jimmy was a lucky guy because it's taken him a while to get accustomed to the size, though in his head Dean wonders if Cas might have used some of his mojo to help things along.

He can usually tell when his angel is close to losing his shit, but he rarely gets the chance. Cas enjoys taking him too much to get off in that pretty little mouth, with the doe eyes staring up at him from the tanned cheeks of freckles. Even still, he runs a dirty vocab lesson when Dean's sucking his cock, and even resident sex god (he apologizes for the use of dear old dad's name) Dean Winchester knows he can pick up a thing or two.

_"Suck my cock like the good little slut you are."_

Dean wouldn't call it getting laid.

But then comes his favorite part and he forgets how to think and almost fucking forgets how to breathe, because Cas picks him up with that mojo angel strength and tosses him on the bed and tells him to get on his knees like an animal - the animal that he is. Somewhere in all of this the angel loses his clothes too, but Dean likes the surprise of looking up and seeing Cas totally naked, because fuck if the angel isn't packing.

The next thing Dean knows Cas is sliding a finger into his ass and damn if he doesn't completely forget about words and turn ons and apocalyptically inappropriate pick - up lines, because this feels so fucking good that he can barely see straight and Cas has hardly touched him. Another finger, and another, and there are already stars popping in front of his eyes and Cas is still teasing in.

Finally, finally, Cas leans all the way in, right up to Dean's neck and he can smell sweat and sex and broken dreams and bites, just enough to have Dean leaking precum all over the sheets and he pushes his head into the blankets and murmurs Dean's favorite words.

"You're not getting laid tonight." Pause. One. Two. Three. "You're getting fucked."

It's such a stupid thing to find so hot, but the next thing Dean knows Cas is sliding into him and hitting fucking home and they're fucking so hard that Dean is burning up from the inside out and he can see fireworks popping before him and it feels better than any barslut or stripper or confused locker room tryst and he knows they're not going to last long because fuck.

Cas starts to lose control too and Dean can feel his own body start to tremble, start to give and the man above him hold him up, pistoning against his frame and they fucking fit together and he wonders if that was ever in the grand plan because it feels so right that there's no way it couldn't be.

He nears the edge but his orgasm always blindsides him, just as Cas hit the power button on his prostate and pumps his sensitive cock all the way home and he's coming, coming, coming, just as the angel finishes in him and he falls sideways and upwards down the cliff of extreme fucking bliss and just keeps on coming.

They take a minute to breathe before they say anything, do anything. It's sex like Dean has never had before and will never have with anyone else. Cas kisses his back lightly and asks him if he's okay, asks him if he went to far this time, asks him if he can hold him.

He doesn't need to ask. Because somehow they fit together, in the fucked up world they're stuck protecting, and Dean doesn't want to question it because it works, and that's more than enough. If they're forced to screw control in the face so fuck it, it's a pleasurable way to, that he's sure of, and he doesn't keep waking up with hangovers, so it sure beats drinking down liquor stores.

When Cas' eyes are closed and his arms are wrapped around him Dean takes the moment to think, as sleep catches up with him and his own eyes begin to droop. Whatever they had, well it worked and that was all he could count on.

Dean wouldn't call it getting laid. It was so much better.


End file.
